


Zen And The Art Of Being A Scheming Son Of A Bitch

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [74]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Decepticon!Jazz, Gen, Interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: TF Speedwriting May 18 Prompt #1: 'Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.'  ― Sun Tzu, The Art of WarIt’s a tale as old as time: a Decepticon is caught and interrogated.





	Zen And The Art Of Being A Scheming Son Of A Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> beta’d by [oly_chic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oly_chic/pseuds/oly_chic)

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

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.

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Prowl didn’t smile at the assassin, but felt the ghost of it hover somewhere in his backlog of executable actions. Interrogation had begun, though he doubted the Decepticon had realized it yet. Oh, he surely realized he was in an interrogation _room._ He likely even realized he was being watched through the holographic false-wall. Prowl had yet to meet a Decepticon who realized this was _part_ of the interrogation.

“He looks intimidated,” Mirage commented flatly. So flatly in fact that few would realize the humor of the words. Prowl understood it, in part because he and the ex-noble had worked together for so very long. In part because it was such a bald faced, outright lie that it could not be anything but a humorous statement.

The Decepticon was not intimidated.

“Shall I go in?” Mirage held out and examined his fingertips, as though this was far less important than his finish. “Start building a rapport?”

“Go polish up first,” Prowl murmured, folding his arms across his chest. He didn’t take his optics off of the Decepticon. He wasn’t averse to torture on moral grounds but found it distasteful all the same for a number of other reasons. “Grab a servant. Someone quiet. Naive. Don’t get your hands dirty.”

“Ah.” Mirage looked from his commander to their prisoner in the interrogation room below. “Do we have time for the long route, sir?” he asked politely.

“For this one, I have all the time in the world.”

.

◇────◇────◇

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Mirage took his words to spark. He took his time polishing up and picking the perfect mech to play at servitude. Prowl was slightly surprised to see Sideswipe be the one to open the door for the noble, and silently drape a towel on the chair across from their prisoner so that the accumulated dust of Iacon’s least-used facilities wouldn’t touch sparkling blue and silver polish. Literally sparkling. Mirage had accented himself with glitter.

Prowl did not interfere with Mirage’s choice of assistant. Sometimes his agent saw social cues Prowl himself missed. Prowl had thought someone naive-seeming, like First Aid, or even Hound or Skids — both of whom could play this part — would connect to this mech best, but he watched the mech’s gaze blaze with rage at Sideswipe — a gladiator frametype who could have easily fit in with the Decepticons — acting so servile at the command of one of the higher castes. Instant rapport.

Mirage was brilliant.

The blue and white (glittery!) noble folded his hands under his chin and let himself silently examine the prisoner while Sideswipe arranged the room to his liking. Closing the door, locking it, retrieving a file for Mirage to peruse as he checked the prisoner’s restraints. He even, Prowl observed with something akin to glee, swept the dust off the table and wiped the neglected surface with a disposable polishing cloth for his “master’s” comfort.

Subspacing the cloth and the dustpan, Sideswipe retreated to the door to act as a guard. Mirage put down the file, spreading it out in front of him.

“We will begin,” Mirage mused distractedly like he had a million other thoughts that were more important, like he had someplace more important to be, “with your name, Decepticon.”

“Frag off and die in a fire, Autobot,” the prisoner hissed, red visor narrowing dangerously. Prowl noted that his chains didn’t twitch or jerk. He had not lunged for his interrogator like others in his position might have. The insult was not a show of temper; he was deliberately goading his interrogator.

Prowl could not see Mirage’s gold optics narrow in response, could not see his agent’s simulated anger. He knew, though, that this character would respond with violence to such an insult, and so was not surprised when the noble stood suddenly, sending both chair and towel flying backward. He lashed out, slapping the prisoner harshly across the face. Acting his own part, Sideswipe flinched, hunching into his armor slightly.

Not hard enough to draw energon, and the Decepticon laughed at his captor’s perceived weakness. “Frag this is fun,” he spat. “You’re terrible at this. Who’d you have to suck off to get this position? Bet it was the Prime.”

“Enraged” Mirage took the table and threw it from between them. “You _will_ answer my questions!”

“You and what army, sweetspark?” The mech laughed as Mirage closed the distance. Prowl leaned forward in anticipation. “In case you haven’t noticed, yours is all busy!”

Prowl’s doors quivered in triumph. As he’d suspected. He sent the first of several orders.

Idly he wondered how Mirage would respond. He would not break character, but he was not allowed to hit the prisoner again.

Mirage lashed out with his foot, missing the Decepticon by a micron and toppling the chair. The prisoner grunted in pain as he slammed down to the ground, still chained to the chair. That was more than enough.

About to comm. Mirage and tell him that, he did not get the chance; the noble kicked out again, hitting the chair. That jerked the bound mech painfully but would do no damage, then he stomped from the room. He slapped Sideswipe — more noise than impact, a theatrical farce — on his way out and ordered the red frontliner to “clean up this mess” before slamming the door behind him.

Sideswipe cringed as the ringing of metal on metal echoed and faded from the room. Shoulders hunched, he went and picked up the prisoner first. He was gentle, and Prowl saw him wince at every scuff mark on the Decepticon’s plating. He didn’t comment though, letting the silence stretch into uncomfortableness as he rechecked that the restraints were holding.

He moved away, to retrieve the table. One of the legs had bent (as it was designed to) and it now wobbled. Silently, Sideswipe fussed worriedly over it, as though afraid he’d be blamed for furniture abuse. The uncomfortable silence stretched—

Until it broke. “Why do you put up with that?” the prisoner rasped, and Prowl could have danced with joy. Perfect.

Sideswipe shrugged, and with a sigh of disgust at the table, went to the fallen chair and righted it. “It’s just the way things are. You shouldn’t antagonize him.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” the Decepticon insisted. “You no longer need to submit to the obsolete dregs of an obsolete system.”

“At least when _my_ commander hits me, I’m still functional afterward,” the frontliner hissed. Prowl frowned. That was not part of Sideswipe’s “servant” script.

Prowl was glad not to have had the chance to interfere as the prisoner laughed, good-naturedly. He once again reminded himself that he employed people for a reason, and one of those reasons was that they were better at the social aspect of this job than he was.

“I will give you that,” the Decepticon said. He wiggled in his chains, settling into a more comfortable position. Prowl expected a defense of the Decepticon way. Strength, after all, was the only quality that mattered. When it didn’t come, gears in his processor started turning. Interesting. “What’s your name?”

“Siders,” Sideswipe answered. “Yours?”

Prowl’s attention snapped back to the interrogation room. Would he...?

“Jazz,” the Decepticon answered. Triumph burned through Prowl’s lines like pure, ultra-filtered engex, empowering and dizzying all at once. Perfect. He absolutely _loved_ it when a plan came together so smoothly.

“Jazz,” Sideswipe repeated. “I wish I could say nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Have they fed you at all?” the frontliner whispered. “I have an extra cube of fuel in my subspace.”

Prowl didn’t stick around to hear if the prisoner accepted the offer. He would go over the conversation, in detail, when Sideswipe was finished. Then he would sort out the lies from the truths, picking through the empty words for the diamonds that would fit so very neatly into the puzzle he’d already constructed. He exited the observation room, nodding to Mirage as he did so. The spy slid into the space Prowl had occupied, observer and back up. Not that Sideswipe was likely to need it at this point, but it was protocol. Protocol that was there for a reason.

For the moment, though, the prisoner had become unimportant. He had a battle, an _ambush,_ to prepare for.

.

◇────◇────◇

.

Seeking to preserve that rapport for a while, Prowl allowed Sideswipe only sparing access to the prisoner. Not too difficult, given how busy the frontliners all suddenly were. And overplaying Mirage’s character would break the illusion when the “easily provoked” noble never moved on to actual torture. Instead, he had Jazz transferred to a “new” interrogator. Skids was sympathetic to Jazz, but remained distant since Prowl had judged that a second attempt to actively befriend Jazz, or appear willing to be converted, would tip him off to the first. Jazz did his best to goad him, but he remained calm, professional, and unflappable as he’d been ordered. 

Meanwhile, Prowl himself was busy. He had a battle to supervise, and a rescue to plan...

The final time “Siders” went down to the Decepticon’s cell, he did so with his twin. Still covered in the grime of travel, and his servile cowering replaced by his usual manic energy glittering in his optics, he was a very different mech than the one Jazz had come to know. Prowl watched on the wide, bright screen of a datapad via a wireless feed from the conference room he’d chosen.

To Jazz’s credit, he figured out he’d been tricked the moment “Siders” entered the room and waved jauntily at him. He narrowed his visor and did not greet his friend. The rapport they’d had dissolved as if it had never been.

Prowl was impressed, despite himself.

Sideswipe, however, could not refuse a taunt. “Howdy. How’s it hanging, Jazz?”

“Who cares,” Sunstreaker snarled.

The more jovial twin pressed one hand to his scorched chest. “I do! It,” he grinned at Jazz, “may have all been a filthy, dirty trick, but our friendship was _real._ It was _epic.”_

Jazz just glared.

Sunstreaker just rolled his optics. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t worry,” Sideswipe heckled. “We’ve already fed the boss his virgin sacrifice. He shouldn’t be hungry again for... oh, another decacycle or so.”

Prowl rolled his optics at that.

The twins did not take Jazz to his usual interrogation room. Following their progress on the cameras, Prowl watched them wind their way through the bowls of Iacon.

Responding to a signal from Prowl’s own comsuite, the holographic representation of last decacycle’s battlefield faded away, ready for the dramatic moment. Right on time. Prowl chose a different camera for his datapad, then switched it off before the picture resolved. He set it aside as the door opened.

Shoved roughly, Jazz stumbled inside, blinking at the sudden darkness. The twins took up positions on either side of the door as it closed behind them.

What did Jazz see now? Not a smile, though Prowl was feeling more than enough buzzing pleasure that he could have summoned one. The dark shadow of a doorwinged mech, barely visible in from the standby light of the holographic display, blue optics glowing with... what? Prowl knew what people said about him, and two different descriptors popped up over and over. Distracted, or demonic. Which did Jazz see now?

The Decepticon pulled his bravado on like a cloak. “Should’ve known that jumped up noble couldn’t pull off a mind trick like this,” he growled.

He was hard to read. An enigma. Mist. Prowl could not see how deep that confidence went. How sure was he of his fate? Now face to face, Jazz’s emotions were mercury. Shifting and reflective and poisonous all at once. A failing, on his part, he knew, that he could not read people like this. In a battle of words with this mech, Prowl knew he would lose.

“You are correct.” There was no harm in revealing that now. “His natural talents, inclinations, and former status has made it easy to deceive Soundwave into believing Mirage is his opposite number.”

Jazz stiffened, and now Prowl did feel his lips quirk. He knew Prowl would never let him leave with that information. Prowl may be destined to lose any verbal battle right now, but he _never_ sparred. There were only two ways this would end, and both were to his advantage. Either Prowl killed Jazz now, or...

“Good to know,” Jazz purred. He gave in to the temptation to step closer and didn’t even hesitate when Sideswipe shifted warningly. The chains turned his graceful gait into a hesitant shuffle. “I’d much rather be dealing with you anyway. You’re prettier.”

Prowl blinked and felt his quirked smile freeze in place.

He did _not_ fritz.

Instead, he dismissed the comment. If Jazz’s words meant anything, they were only an attempt to derail this new — so far as he knew — interrogator. He would not engage in a verbal battle.

Theatrics, on the other hand...

“Tell me what you see here,” Prowl murmured, reaching out to turn on the holographic projector. Light blazed into the room, turning them both into washed out versions of themselves. Jazz glanced down, deep red visor turned pink by the odd lighting; he opened his mouth to retort, perhaps to affirm he would tell his captors _nothing..._

Prowl saw the words die, unspoken.

The sonic canyons, the only road between Polyhex and the ruins of Praxus, where the Autobots had been gearing up for a major push on Jazz’s home city. Sappers from countless previous attacks had left gaps in the walls, and Megatron had pulled troops from its walls to try and ensure the Autobots never arrived. And there was Decepticon counterattack, which had been moving into position to ambush the vulnerable Autobot forces... Decepticon forces which had been funneled into the canyons and turned to ash and rubble by orbital bombardment before they had even reached the Autobot camps. Now their forces were moving on the even more vulnerable city.

The city hadn’t fallen yet, but Prowl knew it could not hold. Without Polyhex, the Decepticons would lose important facilities for the manufacture of several different weapons, as well as energon mines, refineries, troops, an important staging ground for attacking Autobot territories beyond the Rust Sea, and more.

“This is a live feed,” Prowl said softly into the sudden silence.

“Ain’t,” Jazz said, but his voice wavered. “Can’t be. There should have been...” his mouth snapped shut so quickly that Prowl heard the snap of his teeth.

No matter. “A Decepticon ambush five cycles ago,” Prowl finished for him. “Tell me, what do you think today’s date _is?”_

Jazz only glared sullenly.

Good thing Prowl knew the answer. “Megatron is a decent enough commander. I knew I was putting the army in a vulnerable position, preparing for this push, and so I knew what must be coming when Decepticon troops began being reassigned from other areas of interest. Choosing my staging ground carefully ensured the Decepticons would be in the proper positions within the canyons. What I did not know was _when.”_ Something exceedingly important when planning orbital bombardments. Too soon, and the massive lasers would hit only metal and slag, not troops. Too late, and Prowl might as well not give the order to fire at all; battle would be underway. Prowl turned his gaze from the tactical display to Jazz and hoped his own optics glittered dangerously. He did love it when a plan came together. But this was only one, of several. “It was so very considerate of Soundwave to confirm it would be soon by sending you to assassinate me. And thank you for giving me the exact date.”

“I didn’t—!”

“You did, when you taunted Mirage that the army was busy,” Prowl corrected coldly. “Your chronometer has been disabled, as per protocol. It was simple to speed up the brig’s day-night cycle just enough that you thought you had been here a few cycles longer than you had.”

Jazz’s EM field drew around him like a veil of mist, cutting off Prowl’s view of his already unreadable, quicksilver moods. Prowl resisted the urge to smile a little wider. It looked like he’d hit a nerve.

And now for the rest. “You can’t go back now, of course,” he commented, almost idly, turning back to the display, pacing around the table to where he’d left the darkened datapad. “Consider how this looks to Soundwave. Not only am I not dead, but the _one_ piece of information I could not have possessed, short of the words of a traitor, and behold...” he waved his hand at the image of Decepticon ruination. “Coincidentally placing your home city in Autobot hands.”

Jazz barked a laugh. “You think he believes I’d betray the Decepticons for my _city.”_

“No. But I’m sure he’d believe you’d betray _anyone_ for your brother.” Switching on the datapad, the camera feed he’d left on it flickered into existence, and Prowl slid it across the table and into Jazz’s cuffed hands. “Since it’s true.”

He caught it automatically and looked down. Ricochet’s unconscious form snoozed there, cuffed to a berth in the prisoners’ ward of Iacon General.

To his credit, Jazz gave nothing away. Prowl approved.

Good thing Prowl didn’t need a reaction. “He’s stable, just as he has been since Starscream lashed out at him, when was it? Four quartexes ago? A rescue, medical treatment, sanctuary... Are those a high enough price for your loyalty in Soundwave’s optics?”

“Damn you.”

Prowl ignored that. “Now, of course, this can go one of a couple ways. I can have both of you tried for your war crimes and executed, or we can pretend the last few cycles went _exactly_ like Soundwave thinks they did.” A ping from his comsuite and the twins opened the door and stepped forward to escort the for-now Decepticon through it. Prowl saw Jazz’s hands clutch the datapad possessively, reluctant to let go of that proof of Ricochet’s presence and condition, before releasing it to clatter softly on the table to let himself be led meekly out. “Think about it,” Prowl called as the door closed.

Left alone with the tactical display, Prowl shut off the image and plunged the room back into darkness. That Jazz would choose his brother’s life was foregone. He only needed a joor or so to realize it. Asset acquired.

Of course, Jazz could not be trusted right away, but Prowl already had a list of tasks that would be suitable for a recent convert with his skills. He would behave, at least until Ricochet was fully repaired.

Repairing Ricochet, instead of simply keeping him as indefinite leverage would secure some good will, but Prowl had to build up the rest himself. Ratchet assured him that, even with his efforts to _repair_ the mech, instead of keeping him from dying in stasis as the Decepticons had done, it would still be several quartexes. Not an untenable timeline.

Ratchet himself would probably establish a rapport with Jazz quickly… not that the medic would ever admit that was what he was doing. He called it “compassion” and “kindness” and “you’d be well to try it, you overclocked adding machine”, but Prowl found it a useful trait regardless. Delving further down that thought, Prowl pulled up the transcripts of Jazz’s interrogations with Sideswipe and Skids, looking for clues for who else could establish a connection...

Oh yes, Prowl did love it when a plan came together.

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End


End file.
